


Flying Rapidly Across the Zenith

by enmity



Category: Kingdom Hearts (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, other characters cameo + get mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25245547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enmity/pseuds/enmity
Summary: There were few ways to measure time in a place of perpetual midnight. Transgressions and unpaid debts, things that brought him no joy; they were what he kept track of.
Relationships: Saix/Xion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Flying Rapidly Across the Zenith

**Author's Note:**

> Setting is after 358/2 Days, but before KH2 proper.

One day he looked out the window and saw rain. It wasn’t unusual weather; the world Xemnas built his empire in had cruel skies and a worse disposition. The wet drops slid across the glass in his peripheral vision as he shrugged on his coat, stepped into his boots. He could see Kingdom Hearts shining through the thin sheet of glimmering needles, brighter than the city of anonymous skyscrapers and tacky neon, and it was another day. A new day.

A week since the attack that left him in disgraceful defeat. Seven days since Roxas left. Three days since he and Axel were last on speaking terms. There were few ways to measure time in a place of perpetual midnight. Transgressions and unpaid debts, things that brought him no joy; they were what he kept track of.

Thirteen chairs in the round, pale room. Eight stacks of reports tidy on his desk, one right next to the other. Six dozen missions, mapped out for the week’s timetable. For Demyx, three strikes of disciplinary rulings; one punishment to be meted out, sooner rather than later.

Work. So much of it—unquantifiable.

He put his clipboard aside and sat down.

–

It was still raining when he reached for the last stack of paper. Tucked at the far corner of the desk, not nearly far enough to escape notice. A name he didn’t recognize, handwriting that struck unfamiliar, and—

The ink burst. Stains on the paper, soaking into the wood. The name, drowned out in a splatter of black, and he hadn’t read it, hadn’t even the time to spare it a second glance. He let go of the pen, letting it roll onto the floor, an expletive hissed through clenched teeth.

Twenty seconds for the dusks to heed their call, fifteen minutes for them to clean up. Bleach banished the color away, he made sure of that, and one ruined report went into the trash. Unsalvageable. It would have to be rewritten, though Saix was hardly thinking of that.

And he hadn’t read it. He _hadn’t_.

He hardly even noticed how tightly his hands were gripping the table.

–

He shoved the rest of the papers, unscathed and unread, into the furthest reaches of the bottom cabinet. Slammed it shut, the metal noise echoing off the off-gray walls, and if he were predisposed to such idiocy he would have thought it sounded like mocking laughter.

–

The basement was sterile. Nothing breathed in the castle, save for the empty husks and their pathetic imitations, testaments of pitiful longing created in the image of something whole. Saix reached for the console; remembered, at least, the right combination of numbers.

The pod unfurled, petal by artificial petal, and it was not beautiful. It had been shipped from the deeper reaches of Castle Oblivion, months and months ago, and he had never possessed Marluxia’s eye for symbolism, never shared his inane affinity for wasteful aesthetics.

It was no flower. Just wires and electricity and glass and tubes, metal framing finished with a shell of white. Nothing but pretenses, a false sheen of pliable fragility. There was nothing beautiful about a lie. But that fop would have found it apt; amusing, even. There was little wonder he was dead.

The monitor whirred to life. Letters and numbers ticked across the screen. Sharp green standing out against the black, and when at last he turned to look, the pod was empty. He stilled, mouth pressing into a thin, hard line.

Saix had expected as much. Behind him, the corridor yawned awake. Marluxia was wrong, of course.

–

_—just a doll._ Just a doll with one clammy dead palm pressed against the panel sliding away, twitching to grasp empty air as the world revealed itself to it. Cold light, blank walls. His gaze had flickered back to the monitor quickly enough to avoid having to look, and there’d been a word forming on the tip of his tongue, syllables smothered into silence by the harsh press of teeth on flesh.

‘Good morning.’ ‘Get up.’ ‘Today’s your first day.’

He hadn’t said that. Hadn’t said anything. There’d been no need, nothing to say, and besides nobody had said a word about requiring him to make conversation with it, a replica of all things; he certainly wasn’t going to start now.

Still _,_ it had nodded, from the corner of his eye. As if having heard him speak the words anyway.

–

The next day, when Saix looked out the window, he saw rain.

His injuries were on the last leg of their healing. It was easier to move without hurting than it had been yesterday. But there was a new kind of affliction, one that scooped his insides hollow, leaving every nerve feeling like lead. Numb, and number still.

Six stacks of reports on his desk. A fresh refill of a dozen pens; for the dusk who had supplied them, a single curt dismissal. Six-figure numbers in the ledger. Xemnas’ plans were moving forward, despite the unprecedented setbacks. Budgeting would need to be adjusted…

News of Axel’s renegade status had traveled like wildfire to the bottom rungs. But he’d heard it first, from the lord’s own mouth, the knowledge sinking dully into his head and passing down, settling _there_ , in that hollow place that a lifetime ago would’ve clenched to aching with the burden of a heart.

Not anymore.

“Traitors are to be eliminated. Surely you understand that well?” And he did.

If there was any part left in him still capable of lamenting the verdict, he couldn’t find it. And for the better anyway. He hadn’t been looking for it very hard. Not as if Axel was worth it. Surely when he’d made the decision it wasn’t Saix he thought of. Not even as the very last thing on his mind, no, surely he hadn’t been there at all, their history together broken so cleanly apart, like a dead branch snapping from its own rot. As though all those years of intact humanity had ultimately amounted to little more than the weight of chains holding him down. So Roxas was all that mattered to him now. Only that boy, and… and—

_Who…?_

At his side, Xigbar guffawed. “Mighty scary face you’re making there! Even for you.” He made a show of wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye, and how stupid, Saix wanted to say. Nobodies didn’t cry. The other man waved, skipping into the maw of a dark portal, “Careful not to pop a vessel there, yeah?”

For the rest of the day, his mouth filled to the brim with ashes and tar.

–

_Even the blunt_ edge of a blade could bludgeon. Not enough to kill or maim but sufficient as a warning. Usually a warning did suffice; he was not foolish enough an individual to champion momentary gratifications over permanent victories.

But.

The thing on the floor was coughing still. Head turned to the floor, hands clutching loosely around its neck in a more merciful pantomime of his earlier gesture. When he’d shoved his heel to spur it upright it shrank further into stillness instead, and it was pathetic, really. A creature curling into its own self-pity—and he’d told it as much.

No reply. No reaction.

Silence.

He’d placed his hands back down, the memory of the creature’s skin yielding beneath them startlingly fresh, and told himself it didn’t matter. Marching to destiny’s own time, Xemnas had said, and he liked to think he knew what the word destiny meant, when it came to an object whose very existence was a transgression of the highest order.

Created to be used—and to be broken. Even the puppet itself couldn’t have lived this long without understanding that.

So he’d put his hands back down. He could be patient, if he wanted to be.

If he wanted to be.

–

Never once did the thought cross his mind to bring it up.

–

Raining again. Productivity was going down. The castle had gone quieter and quieter with every passing day, and he’d taken to hounding the dusks who passed him by when he weren’t searching inside storage cabinets or under kitchen shelves for wherever Demyx opted to shirk work that day, favoring instead to share his living space with the castle’s blissfully copulating population of rats.

“Have you ever,” he started, though his shoulders were shaking already, “tried lightening up for once in your—”

It didn’t take much effort to reach over and choke him with the half-melted bar of ice cream he’d been so delightfully enjoying not a moment ago. “Mercy!” Demyx whimpered.

Sea-salt—of course. Upon that revelation, he elected to use more force.

–

The dustbin in the corner of his office overflowed with trash. Paper waste, so much of it. He’d sent the dusks to take care of it but more kept collecting, a veritable mountain staring him in the face. What an eyesore. And in one of those increasingly rare moments where Saix let himself be grateful it was for the existence of mechanical shredders in Never Was.

The sound of its name being ripped apart rising in a painful, uneven crescendo, pausing abruptly. The machine stuttered to a halt, waiting for him to feed it.

_Didn’t make today’s quota. Defeated by the impostor in black coat._

No incinerators though. Of course not. Xemnas would never stand the fumes.

_Rendered indisposed. Suggested permanent removal from active duty._

Instead he put his mind on other things. Sora had awakened. Xemnas’ plans were moving forward. Axel, that loose cannon, the unquantified variable…

A hand slid over his face. It twitched to heed the call of a weapon, a sword forged from impostor hatred and impostor anger and nothing that had amounted to anything against the swing of Roxas’ keyblade and Kingdom Hearts’ cruel whims, refusing to answer his pleas. A sword which meant power, which meant nothing because it was borrowed. Because the price it extracted came in the form of free will.

He sighed, scooping the ribboned mess that lay at his feet, and put his mind on other things.

Soon enough it would be necessary not to think of anything at all.

–

“Hollow Bastion…” he paused, then caught himself, “sir?”

The name creased under his thumb. It sounded wrong even in his own head. Saix was looking at the map and didn’t care to look up, but if he did he imagined the face staring back at him would be wearing a smile. One of those things he’d learned to pay attention to and categorize.

That was his strong suit, keeping track of things. Note-taking. Inventory. A good talent used the wrong way. Might have even taken him somewhere, if Xehanort hadn’t gotten to him first.

Sometimes the smile would even be familiar, looking as though it belonged on a different face, and those Saix hated the most.

So he didn’t look up. Kept his eyes on the map, distantly peeling back his memory for which landmark corresponded to which spot, running a finger over each moment of faint recognition. If he reached deeply enough he might pull back the ghost of his human self, gangly and self-important and baby-faced. A child, above all else.

“I know of its history, of course—we both do—but it is the optimal place. All the better for the keyblade hero to make his triumphant entrance, no?” Xemnas said. No doubt he was rolling his eyes. Every word slow as molasses, and Saix struggled not to grit his teeth. “I trust you do not have any objections?”

Saix stopped. This time he did lift his gaze. His own expression was schooled into blankness. The emptiness in his chest left no room for anything besides exhaustion.

“No, sir. Please pardon my distraction.” He shook his head, deferential. But he couldn’t be less apologetic if he’d tried. “I just remembered something, that’s all.”

–

_I’m sorry._

_It_ was a sight he’d gotten used to. The replica, bent over, hands scrabbling the floor to collect torn-up paper. The replica, its head bowed low—reflecting on its many mistakes, perhaps; or maybe it just didn’t want to listen. I’m sorry, it would tell him. The only thing it could say: I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

“Look at you. Acting like you’re the only miserable thing left in the world _._ ”

Even the way it carried itself seemed like an apology.

The replica, asleep for the last time in the body it called home. Come the next day it would have become something else entirely, an abomination to the world or something worse, but right now it slumbered soundlessly in the translucent shell of the pod, its limbs bare and bruised and lethargic, and they had Axel to thank for that. Almost oblivious, though that couldn’t be the case. No doubt all those wayward attempts at deserting had taught it the true extent of the Organization’s leash.

Defying all expectations, Axel had been true to his word: he had brought the replica back. No button on the console could provoke a physical response, and for a single giddy instant Saix wondered if it was dead. At least when it slept it was silent, and silence meant acquiescence. Silence meant assent. Silence meant that when he peered over the glass and wire and metal and said, quite dishonestly, “I’ve hated you ever since the day we met,” there were no apologies.

–

The drooping flowers of Wonderland and the shadowed pavements of Halloween Town and the burning sands of Agrabah and there was weight behind each brutal swing of his claymore sending the machines flying into pieces of metal and wire and shrapnel, there was weight and anger and force driving each movement of upraised arm and bone-breaking impact, but nothing so close to the satisfaction he ached for.

“You’re dead.” He didn’t say that. “You were a failure, even as a monster.” He didn’t say that either. “We didn’t kill you,” accusingly, “You chose your fate.”

And once more his blade swung down.

–

_If he cared_ to pinpoint the moment the replica stopped being another stone to trample underfoot in his ascent to the top, it would be:

Footsteps, pacing softly towards his fixed position in the gray room. He’d always stood close to the window, in reach of the shadow of the moon. “Saix,” and its voice had been mild, those thin fingers lacing uncertainly in the middle. “Is it true? About Roxas…”

“Yes, it’s true.” He had been careful, he would later remember, not to look at it. To make sure that its side of the conversation would be carried through his peripheral vision.

“So he’s still asleep…”

“He might not ever open his eyes.”

He had been distracted, his pen running dry or an errant staple stuck to the corner of the paper, enough disorder to throw him off-balance, and he hadn’t registered Xigbar’s presence until it was too late: the man had sauntered from the corner of his eye and into focus, wearing the most carefree of grins. “Haven’t you been visiting him every day? How sweet of you, Poppet!”

Something within him had crawled at the address. That, he preferred not to remember.

He’d brought a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Anything to make Xigbar leave, him and the replica both, and Saix had said, “You may as well keep checking on him, then. There’s still a chance he might wake up.”

So neutral and impersonal and utterly without meaning, and that was why he’d said it. And yet.

“Thank you,” so quietly, the words barely above a murmur. Those fingers fidgeting again at nothing, and under the leather and the black he knew them to be thin and yielding, the color of a witch’s unmarred paper and a castle of too many secrets. Nothing it would have remembered anyway, and already, he despised it for that. Blissful oblivion, down to the core. “Saix.”

–

The room at the end of the long hallway.

The door opened easily, of course. No need to bother knocking an unoccupied bedroom.

The interior was clean. Someone had recently cleared out. The sheets were clean and crisp, and in the wet draft coming in through the half-opened window they looked far too thin for comfort. Bland, pallid white, like the marble flowers of Castle Oblivion’s upper levels. Like the bleached floors of Vexen’s laboratory, the day he’d paraded the creature around like a firstborn child, its limbs stiff and naked and gelid to the touch.

It was the lump tucked under the blanket that caught his eye.

He picked it up, turned it around, and knew the color and shape of the shell without having to look. He felt dully the dozen ridges, the miniscule indents, listened to the sound it made as it cracked beneath the mounting pressure of his thumb and forefinger. Broken, just like that.

A brittle thing, really. A small thing. So tiny and pitiful and insignificant.

But even shredded to pieces and burnt to ashes and ground to dust it would not nearly be enough to rid the world of all its memories of the puppet called Xion.

**Author's Note:**

> “i know my kh ships will never sound as good as 714 im trying my best” -- ozzy
> 
> Happy Saix/Xion day! ^_^


End file.
